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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/grayselegyitsautOOgray 


Grays  Elegy  and  its  author 


Gray’s  Elegy  written  in  a Country  Churchyard 
with  an  Introduction  and  Illustrations  from  Original  ‘ Photographs  by 


Dr.  J.  L.  WILLIAMS 


TROY  NEW  YORK 


NIMS  AND  KNIGHT 

1891 


COPYRIGHT  1890 

BY 

NIMS  & KNIGHT 


Press  of 

A.  E.  Chasmar  & Company, 
new  York. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Photogravures  by  New  York  Photogravure  Co.,  from  original  negatives  by  Dr.  J.  L.  Williams. 


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Frontispiece  “ Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a mould’ring  heap.’’ 
Porch  of  Stoke  Pogis  Church  ....... 

Eton  College  .......... 

Burnham  Beeches  .......... 

Windsor  Castle  .......... 

Stoke  Pogis  Churchyard  ........ 

Burnham  Beeches  .......... 

“ Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight.” 

“ Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield.”  . ... 

“And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds.” 

“ P'rom  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow’r.”  . ..... 

“Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke.” 

“ How  bow’d  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke.” 

“ Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil.”  .... 


Facing  Title 
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Page  23 
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26 

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5 


“ Their  homely  joys  an  d destiny  obscure.” 

“ Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble  strife.” 

“ Brushing,  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away,” 

“ There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech,” 

“ Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn.” 

“ Here  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose.” 

■“The  red-breast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there,” 


Facing  page  30 
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“ “ 35 

“ 36 

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“ 4i 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 

/CRAY'S  ELEGY  is  probably  the  most  widely  known  classic  in  the  English  language.  It  has 
been  translated  into  almost  every  civilized  tongue,  and  is  one  of  the  few  masterpieces 
which  seem  to  appeal  alike  to  the  simple-minded  peasant  and  the  profound  student  of  literature. 
It  has  endured  without  loss  of  dignity  the  most  severe  test  which  can  be  applied  to  any  literary  pro- 
duction— that  of  popular  familiarity,  and  it  ranks  with  Shakespeare’s  best  work  in  retaining  its 
vitality  and  its  hold  upon  cultivated  taste  through  all  the  changing  fashions  of  the  century  and  a 
half  which  have  elapsed  since  it  was  written.  - 

I he  secret  of  its  fame  is  to  be  found  in  the  simplicity  and  elegance  of  its  diction,  the  truthful- 
ness of  its  pictures,  and  its  appeal  to  those  tender  and  noble  feelings  of  the  human  heart,  which 
are  as  universal  as  love  and  death. 


7 


'I'he  work  of  all  men  may  be  said  to  be  the  result  oi  certain  capacities  and  tendencies,  which 
are  inherited,  plus  all  of  the  external  conditions  of  life  from  the  time  of  birth.  /It  is  not  often,  however, 
that  the  connection,  or  relation,  between  the  work  and  the  antecedents  and  conditions  which  have 
produced  it  can  be  so  clearly  traced  as  in  the  instance  of  the  Elegy  and  the  life  of  Gray.  I A little 
study  of  his  life  enables  us  to  see  that  the  poem  was  as  naturally  the  product  of  the  poet's  mind, 
as  is  the  fruit  that  of  the  tree  upon  which  it  grows. 

[The  object  of  the  present  work  is  to  give  a brief  resume  of  the  life  of  Gray,  and  to  illustrate 
the  Elegy  by  views  which  are  exact  reproductions  of  studies  from  life,  made  amidst  the  scenes 
which  the  poet  has  so  vividly  and  truthfully  described.  Home  of  these  are  known  to  be  the  iden- 
tical places  which  he  had  in  mind,  as  for  instance,  allof  the  views  of  Stoke  Pogis  Church  and 
the ^o Id  churchyard  surrounding  it,  and  also  the  “ nodding  beech  ’’  by  the  brookside,  which  is  still 
known  as  “ Gray’s  beech.  Eton  College  and  Windsor  Castle  are  just  what  they  were  in  the 
poet’s  time.  The  other  views  are  from  studies  made  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  and  so  slowly  are 
changes  effected  in  rural  England,  either  in  the  topography  of  the  country  or  in  the  homes  and 
habits  of  the  people,  that  these  illustrations  probably  very  faithfully  represent,  for  the  first  time,  the 
scenes  and  life  amidst  which  Gray  wrote  his  immortal  work,  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 

An  hour’s  ride  from  London,  on  the  Great  Western  Line,  brings  us  to  Sloupfh,  the  near- 
est  station  to  Stoke  Pogis,  where  we  change  the  narrow,  stuffy  compartment  of  the  English 
railway  carriage  for  that  most  delightful  of  all  modes  of  travel,  the  top  of  an  old-fashioned,  four- 
horse  English  coach.  We  are  whirled  away  over  a narrow,  smooth  road,  which  runs  between 
hawthorn  hedges  and  rows  of  stately  elms,  and  stretching  away  on  either  side  are  the  waving 
cornfields  and  rich  meadow  lands  of  the  valley  of  the  Thames.  There  is  something  in  this  profu- 
sion of  pastoral  beauty  which  appeals  to  every  sense.  The  gentle  breezes  caress  us  softly  and 
bring  to  our  nostrils  the  mingled  perfumes  of  wild  flowers  and  new-mown  hay  ; the  strident  clang- 
ing sound  of  the  mowers  whetting  their  scythes  comes  across  the  meadows  ; high  above  us  the 
lark  sends  down  his  joyous  melody,  that  seems  to  fall  a rippling  stream  of  music  from  the  clouds  ; 
a yellowish  hue  is  creeping  over  the  fields  of  ripening  grain,  which  are  bordered  and  intermingled 
with  long  stretches  of  the  scarlet  poppy — a true  symbol  of  a land  which  has  grown  opulent  in 
refined  pastoral  beauty  through  centuries  of  careful  cultivation.  And  over  all  there  broods  that 
ineffable,  indescribable  sense  of  peace  which  makes  England  the  most  restful  country  in  the  world 
to  travel  in. 


ET  ° r>  (^>1  1 ^ 


The  three  or  four  miles  are  all  too  swiftly  passed  over,  and  our  coach  stops  at  a little  country 
inn  just  on  the  outskirts  of  what  was  once  a part  of  old  Windsor  forest,  and  known  the  world 
over  now  as  the  famous  “ Burnham  Beeches."  These  venerable  trees  are  said  to  be  seven  or 
eight  hundred  years  old,  and  they  have  probably  changed  but  little  since  Gray,  “ far  from  the  mad- 
ding crowd,”  wandered  among  them  and  dreamed  himself  into  that  spirit  of  serene  content 
which  he  seems  to  have  found  in  their  sylvan  solitudes.  One  of  these  old  giants,  with  wide- 
spreading  branches  and  moss-covered  boles  that  reach  out  towards  the  little  brook  that  murmurs 
near,  is  pointed  out  as  the  identical  “ nodding  beech  that  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high.” 
Here  are  the  miniature  precipices  of  which  he  wrote  to  Walpole,  and  the  little  lakes  in  which  are 
mirrored  the  beautiful  silver  birches  that  lean  out  over  the  banks.  The  region  is  one  of  the  happy 
hunting  grounds  of  London  artists,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  an  attractive  spot  which  has  not 
been  transferred  to  canvas  and  exhibited  on  the  walls  of  the  Royal  Academy.  Fortunate  will  be 
the  possessor  of  a beautiful  picture  which  the  writer  saw  there  in  the  season  of  89.  The  view 
was  the  pathway  beside  the  middle  lake,  with  the  King  of  the  beeches  on  the  left,  and  seated  on 
one  of  the  fantastic  boles  of  this  aged  monarch  was  a beautiful  girl,  her  lap  filled  with  wild  flowers, 
while  at  her  feet  sits  the  poet.  It  was  a moment  in  that  first  happy  Summer  of  his  one  love 
dream.  From  this  point  an  old  pathway  leads  out  of  the  woods  toward  the  “ upland  lawn  ” of 
Burnham  Common,  where  the  “ hoary-headed  swain  ” had  oft 

“ Seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away.” 

This  is  probably  the  footpath  most  frequented  by  Gray,  as  it  leads  directly  from  his  home  into  the 
forest. 

We  follow  its  winding  way  for  a mile  or  more  across  the  fields  and  over  many  stiles,  past 
cottages  embowered  in  rose-vines,  through  the  open  doors  of  which  we  may  watch  the  “ busy 
housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ” until  at  last  we  catch  a glimpse  through  the  great  elms  of  the 
“ ivy-mantled  tower”  of  Stoke  Pogis  church.  An  ornamental  oak  gateway,  a little  too  new  to  be 
in  keeping  with  the  crumbling  moss-grown  stones,  but  withal  more  picturesque  than  such  modern 
improvements  are  wont  to  be,  admits  11s  to  the  churchyard.  No  words  can  portray  the  scene  as 
perfectly  as  do  the  lines  of  the  Elegy  itself.  How  perfectly  the  expression,  “where  heaves  the  turf  in 
many  a mouldering  heap”  describes  these  rows  of  ancient  graves.  Here  are  the  “rugged  elms”  with 
the  rooks  mildly  cawing  about  their  softly  waving  tops;  and  over  them,  just  in  Iront  of  the  picturesque 


9 


old  church  porch,  an  ancient  “ yew  trees  shade  ” falls  athwart  that  last  resting  place  where  a group 
of  “ The  rude  fore-fathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. ’’  On  the  south  wall  of  the  church  is  a tablet  call- 
ing attention  to  the  tomb,  a few  feet  away,  in  which  Gray  was  buried,  in  the  same  vault  where  his 
beloved  mother  was  laid.  The  only  inscription  on  the  tomb  is  the  sweetly  pathetic  one  which  the 
poet  wrote  : 

“Beside  her  friend  and  sister, 

Here  sleep  the  remains  of 
Dorothy  Gray, 

Widow;  the  careful,  tender  mother 
Of  many  children  ; one  of  whom  alone 

Had  the  misfortune  to  survive  her.” 

Aside  from  the  little  tablet  on  the  wall  there  is  nothing  to  mark  the  place  of  Gray’s  interment. 
But  in  the  field,  a few  rods  south  of  the  church,  there  rises  a huge,  ugly  mausoleum,  designed  by 
James  Wyatt,  R.  A.,  and  erected  in  1799.  It  is  covered  with  inscriptions  of  selections  taken  from 
the  “ Elegy  ” and  the  “ Eton  Ode.” 

“The  glimmering  landscape  ” is  fading  into  the  purple  glow  of  evening,  the  laborers  are 
trudging  homeward  to  “ sweet  repast  and  calm  repose,” — let  us  sit  here  on  the  bench  in  the  old 
church  porch  while  the  biographer  tells  us  something  of  the  life  of  one  of  the  most  sincere  and 
gentle  natures  in  the  records  of  literature. 

Thomas  Gray  was  born  in  London,  on  the  26th  of  December,  1716.  But  little  is  known  of 
his  ancestry  beyond  the  fact  that  his  paternal  grandfather  was  a successful  merchant  who  died, 
leaving  Philip  Gray,  the  poet’s  father,  a snug  little  fortune  of  10,000  pounds. 

Philip  Gray  was  married  about  the  year  1705  to  Miss  Dorothy  Antrobus.  Although  belong- 
ing to  a genteel  family,  Miss  Antrobus,  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  was  keeping  a milliner’s  shop 
in  London,  in  company  with  her  sister  Mary.  This  fact  is  worthy  of  mention,  because  from  this 
little  business,  which  was  conducted  by  his  mother  and  aunt,  came  the  funds  for  the 
payment  of  his  educational  expenses,  while  at  Eton  and  Cambridge.  P'or  although  Philip  Gray 
had  inherited  what  in  those  days  was  a very  considerable  fortune,  and  although  apparently  succes- 
ful  in  business  himself,  as  a money  scrivener,  we  have  the  written  testimony  of  Mrs.  Gray  that 
she  had  never  received  a single  penny  from  her  husband  from  the  time  of  their  marriage,  either 
for  the  support  of  herself  or  the  education  of  their  son. 


10 


The  married  life  of  Dorothy  Gray  was  probably  anything  but  a happy  one.  Her  husband 
was  miserly,  jealous,  violent,  and  probably  lived  always  on  the  verge  of  insanity.  Thomas  was  the 
only  one  of  her  twelve  children  whom  she  succeeded  in  rearing,  and  it  is  thought  he  would  have 
died  in  a fit,  but  that  she  opened  a vein  in  his  arm  with  her  scissors,  in  a moment  of  desperation, 
and  thus  saved  his  life.  The  otherwise  dark  picture  of  the  domestic  life  of  the  Gray  family  is 
beautifully  relieved  by  one  bright  spot — the  touching  affection  which  always  existed  between  the 
poet  and  his  mother.  She  was  steadfastly  devoted  to  him,  and  he  returned  her  affection  loyally 
throughout  her  life,  and  after  her  death  his  tender  memories  of  her  love  found  the  pathetic 
expression  which  is  inscribed  on  her  tombstone. 

Dorothy  Gray  had  two  brothers,  John  and  Robert  Antrobus,  who  were  Fellows  of  Cam- 
bridge College.  Thomas  was  probably  not  more  than  seven  or  eight  years  of  age  when  his 
Uncle  Robert  took  him  away  from  the  miserable  home  life  at  Cornhill,  London,  to  his  own 
house  at  Burnham,  near  the  scene  which  he  was  afterwards  to  immortalize  in  his  “ Elegy 
Written  in  a Country  Churchyard.” 

It  is  said  that  the  boy  acquired  a very  thorough  knowledge  of  botany  from  his  uncle,  during 
the  two  or  three  years  of  his  life  here  in  the  country,  before  he  entered  Eton. 

At  ten  years  of  age,  his  father  having  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  his  education,  he 
was  sent  to  Eton,  under  the  auspices  of  his  uncles,  his  mother  assuming  all  the  financial  respon- 
sibility. Something  of  the  poet’s  fastidious  taste  in  the  selection  of  his  associates,  as  exhibited  in 
later  years,  was  shown  here  soon  after  he  entered  school.  He  formed  friendships  with  Horace 
Walpole,  Richard  West,  who  was  a very  precocious  lad,  Jacob  Bryant,  the  antiquary,  and  others 
who  became  men  of  more  or  less  note.  With  these  Gray  shared  such  dilletanti  sports  as  were  then 
in  vogue,  and  it  was  the  recollection  of  these  which  prompted  the  stanza  in  the  famous  Eton  Ode  : 

“Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 
Full  many  a sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green, 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace  ; 

Who  foremost  now  delights  to  cleave, 

With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthrall? 

What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circles’  speed 
Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ?” 


As  a boy,  Gray  was  studious,  reserved  and  shy,  and  that  sweet  melancholy  which  seems  to 
have  been  the  dominating  feature  of  his  life  developed  at  an  early  age.  We  find  him  moralizing 
in  Latin  verse  and  endeavoring  to  fathom  the  secret  laws  of  nature  while  still  a school  boy. 
However,  he  had  hardly  yet  commenced  to  feel  much  of  that  “ world  sorrow  ” which  afterwards 
seemed  to  take  possession  of  him  ; and  altogether  his  life  here  was  perhaps  the  happiest  that  he 
ever  knew.  His  poetic  fancies  turned  to  these  fond  memories  in  after  life  and  found  expression 
in  the  lines  : 


“Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  wat’ry  glade, 

Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 
Her  Henry’s  holy  shade  ; 

And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor’s  heights — the  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 

Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
His  silver-winding  way  : 

Ah,  happy  hills  ! Ah,  pleasing  shade  ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 

Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray’d, 

A stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 

I feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 

My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 

And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a second  spring.” 


Gray  left  Eton  in  1734,  and  went  to  Cambridge.  \ 

If  one  were  to  judge  from  his  letters  to  West,  his  life  here  was  one  of  idle  melancholy.  1 le 
says  : “Almost  all  the  employment  of  my  hours  may  be  best  explained  by  negatives  ; take  my 
word  and  experience  upon  it,  doing  nothing  is  a most  amusing  business  ; and  yet  neither 
something  nor  nothing  gives  me  any  pleasure.  But  this  was  more  an  expression  ol  a sort  of 


fashionable  ennui  than  a statement  of  fact.  ^Melancholy  he  was,  without  doubt,  but  idle  he  cer- 
tainly was  not.  He  was  laying  the  foundation  of  a scholarship  which  placed  him  in  the  very 


3U rr|^k'r’'7  3??cbfs- 


front  rank  of  the  learned  men  of  his  time.  In  August,  1736,  and  also  the  following  year,  we  find 
him  again  at  his  uncle’s  house  in  Burnham,  spending  his  vacations.  During  this  latter  visit  he 
writes  a letter  to  Horace  Walpole,  in  which  he  mentions  the  now  world-famous  Burnham 
Beeches.  He  says  : “ I have  at  the  distance  of  half  a mile,  through  a green  lane,  a forest  (the 
vulgar  call  it  a common),  all  my  own,  at  least  as  good  as  so,  for  I spy  no  human  thing  in  it  but 
myself.  It  is  a little  chaos  of  mountains  and  precipices  ; mountains,  it  is  true,  that  do  not  ascend 
much  above  the  clouds,  nor  are  the  declivities  quite  so  amazing  as  Dover  Cliff ; but  just  such  hills 
as  people  who  love  their  necks  as  well  as  I do,  may  venture  to  climb,  and  crags  that  give  the  eye 
as  much  pleasure  as  if  they  were  more  dangerous.  Both  vale  and  hill  are  covered  with  most 
venerable  beeches,  and  other  very  reverend  vegetables,  that,  like  most  other  ancient  people,  are 
always  dreaming  out  their  old  stories  to  the  winds.  At  the  foot  of  one  of  these  squats  Me  ( il 
penseroso ),  and  there  I grow  to  the  trunk  for  a whole  morning.  The  timorous  hare  and  sportive 
squirrel  gambol  around  me  like  Adam  in  Paradise,  before  he  had  an  Eve  ; but  I think  he  did  not 
use  to  read  Virgil  as  I commonly  do.” 

Gray  left  Cambridge  in  September,  1738,  and  went  to  his  home  in  London.  Early  the  follow- 
ing year  he  was  invited  by  Walpole  to  accompany  him  on  a grand  tour  on  the  Continent.  He 
seems  to  have  had  a very  gay  time  in  Paris,  and  the  following  extract  from  a letter  to  his  mother 
shows  him  in  a somewhat  different  mood  from  the  pensive,  serious  student  at  Cambridge  : “ The 
other  evening  we  happened  to  be  got  together  in  a company  of  eighteen  people,  men  and  women 
of  the  best  fashion  here,  at  a garden  in  the  town,  to  walk,  when  one  of  the  ladies  bethought  her- 
self of  asking,  ‘Why  should  we  not  sup  here?’  Immediately  the  cloth  was  laid  by  the  side  of 
a fountain  under  the  trees,  and  a very  elegant  supper  was  served  up  ; after  which  another  said, 

‘ Come,  let  us  sing,’  and  directly  began,  herself.  Prom  singing  we  insensibly  tell  to  dancing,  and 
singing  in  a round,  whem  somebody  mentioned  the  violin,  and  immediately  a company  of  them 
was  ordered;  minuets  were  began  in  the  open  air,  and  then  came  country  dances,  which  held  till 
four  o’clock  the  next  morning  ; at  which  hour  the  gayest  lady  then  proposed  that  such  as  were 
weary  should  get  into  their  coaches  and  the  rest  of  them  should  dance  before  them  with  the  music 
in  the  van,  and  in  this  manner  we  paraded  through  all  the  principal  streets  of  the  city  and  waked 
everybody  in  it.” 

There  is  nothing  in  this  of  the  brooding  melancholy  or  the  habitual  "low  spirits’’  which 
were,  as  he  wrote  while  at  college,  his  “ true  and  faithful  companions.” 


Here  is  a gem  of  a conceit  which  he  writes  from  Lyons  anent  the  meeting  of  the  rivers  : 
“ The  Rhone  and  Saone  are  two  people,  who,  though  of  tempers  expressly  unlike,  think  fit  to 
join  hands  here,  and  make  a little  party  to  travel  to  the  Mediterranean  in  company  ; the  lady 
comes  gliding  along  through  the  fruitful  plains  of  Burgundy,  incrcdibile  lenitate , ita  tit  oculis  in 
utram partem  fluit  judicare  non  possit ; the  gentleman  runs,  all  rough  and  roaring,  down  from  the 
mountains  of  Switzerland  to  meet  her,  and  with  all  her  soft  airs,  she  likes  him  never  the  worse; 
she  goes  through  the  middle  of  the  city  in  state,  and  he  passes  incognito  without  the  walls,  but 
waits  for  her  a little  below.”  . 

I At  Reggio,  in  Italy,  occurred  the  famous  quarrel  between  Gray  and  Walpole.)  The  breach  was 
lmaled,  after  an  estrangement  of  three  years  ; and  after  Gray’s  death,  Walpoleacknowledged  that 
the  fault  was  largely  his  own.  The  poet  returned  from  Italy  in  the  autumn  of  1741,  and  a few 
weeks  later  occurred  the  death  ol  his  father.  He  continued  to  live  with  his  mother  and  aunt  for 
nearly  a year,  at  Cornhill,  until  the  death  of  his  uncle,  Mr.  Jonathan  Rogers,  who  lived  at  Stoke 
Pogis,  near  Burnham,  where  he  had  spent  two  years  as  a boy.  Mrs.  Gray  and  her  sister,  Mary 
Antrobus,  then  decided  to  dispose  ot  their  shop  and  with  the  proceeds  of  this  sale  and  with  the  small 
remnant  of  the  fortune  which  Philip  Gray  had  left,  they  went  to  live  with  their  widowed  sister, 
Anna,  at  Stoke  Pogis.  Gray  had  preceded  them  and  was  living  there  at  the  time  of  the  death  of 
his  uncle.  Several  events  occurred  in  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1742,  which  doubtless  pre- 
pared his  mind  for  the  commencement  of  that  wonderful  poem  which  was  to  bring  deathless  fame 
to  its  author.  One  of  them  was  the  loss  of  his  dear  friend  West,  to  whom  he  was  so  fondly  at- 
tached that  the  mention  of  his  death  many  years  afterwards  always  visibly  agitated  him. 

He  had  already  written,  in  August  of  this  year,  the  “ Ode  on  a Distant  Prospect  of  Eton 
College,”  or,  as  the  title  reads  in  the  original  manuscript,  “ Eton  College,  Windsor,  and  the  Ad- 
jacent Country.”  A short  walk  from  Stoke  Church  toward  the  west,  brings  us  to  the  summit  of 
a gentle  acclivity,  which  slopes  away  for  a couple  of  miles  to  the  Thames.  Rising  majestically 
from  a promontory  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  we  see  the  embattled  outlines  of  the  Royal 
Castle  of  Windsor,  relieved  against  the  southern  sky.  A little  lower  down  in  the  valley,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  river  from  the  Castle,  we  can  see  the  “ distant  spires  ” and  “ antique  towers  ” 
of  Eton  College.  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  in  his  admirable  life  of  Gray,  says:  “ The  Eton  Ode  is 

redolent  of  Stoke  Pogis,  and  to  have  sauntered  where  Gray  must  himself  have  muttered  his 
verses  as  they  took  shape,  gives  the  reader  a certain  sense  of  confidence  in  the  poet's  sincerity.” 


14 


A few  months  later,  probably  in  October  or  November,  1742,  he  commenced  the  ‘Elegy.’  It 
became  apparent  to  Gray,  soon  after  the  removal  of  his  mother  and  aunt  to  Stoke,  that  he  would 
be  compelled  to  abandon  the  sweet  serenity  of  a life  of  lettered  ease  here  in  the  country,  which 
he  had  pictured  to  himself.  The  financial  income  of  the  family  was  hardly  more  than  sufficient, 
even  with  rigid  economy,  for  the  support  of  the  three  sisters.  He  made  an  attempt  to  secure  a 
Government  appointment,  but  failing  in  this,  he  resolved  to  return  to  Cambridge.  Accordingly, 
he  took  his  bachelor’s  degree  of  Civil  Law  in  the  Winter  of  1742,  and  immediately  took  up  his 
residence  at  the  college.  His  life  from  this  time  on  was  spent  almost  entirely  between  Cam- 
bridge and  Stoke  Pogis.  f In  November,  1749,  Gray’s  aunt,  Mary  Antrobus,  died  at  Stoke.  He 
was  very  much  attached  to  her,  and  her  death  seems  again  to  have  called  his  attention  to  the  un- 
finished Elegy.  He  finished  it  the  following  June,  at  Stoke,  where  it  was  begun,  amid  the  scenes 
which  it  describes  .JOn  its  completion  he  immediately  wrote  to  Walpole,  saying:  ‘ Having  put 

an  end  to  a thing  whose  beginning  you  have  seen  long  ago,  I immediately  send  it  to  you.  You 
will,  I hope,  look  upon  it  in  the  light  of  a thing  with  an  end  to  it ; a merit  that  most  of  my  writ- 
ings have  wanted,  and  are  likely  to  want.’  ” 

The  only  circulation  this  masterpiece  of  lyric  poetry  had  for  nine  years  was  such  as  Gray’s 
friends  gave  it,  by  copies  in  manuscript  form.  He  received  a letter  in  February,  i75i,  from  the 
publisher  of  a London  magazine,  informing  him  that  this  ingenious  poem  called  “ Reflections  in 
a Country  Churchyard  ” was  about  to  appear  in  his  periodical,  and  asking  for  his  correspondence 
on  the  subject.  Ignoring  this  audacious  request,  Gray  immediately  wrote  to  Walpole,  asking 
him  to  have  the  Elegy  published  within  a week,  if  possible.  It  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  Dods- 
ley,  and  the  first  printed  edition  of  the  poem  appeared  within  five  days  from  the  receipt  of  Gray’s 
letter.  It  was  a complete  popular  success,  from  the  instant  of  its  publication.  Four  editions  ap- 
peared the  first  two  months,  and  eleven  authorized  editions  were  printed  within  two  years.  It 
was  pirated  and  printed  everywhere,  and  read  by  everybody.  Some  of  the  earlier  editions  con- 
tain several  beautiful  stanzas  which  were  subsequently  omitted  by  the  author.  One  of  these 
formed  the  fourth  stanza  of  the  Elegy,  and  reads  as  follows  : 

“ Hark  ! how  the  sacred  calm  that  breathes  around 
Bids  every  fierce,  tumultuous  passion  cease  ; 

In  still,  small  accents  whispering  from  the  ground 
A grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace.” 


15 


These  lines  are,  perhaps,  as  beautiful  as  any  in  the  poem.  They  were  rejected  because  the 
ideas  were  transferred  and  worked  up  in  other  parts  of  the  Elegy.  Immediately  after  what  is 
now  the  26th  stanza,  the  following  lines  were  placed  : 

“ Him  have  we  seen,  the  greenwood  side  along, 

While  o'er  the  heath  we  hied,  our  labor  done, 

Oft  as  the  woodlark  piped  her  farewell  song, 

With  wistful  eyes  pursue  the  setting  sun.” 

In  the  earlier  editions  the  epitaph  was  preceded  by  the  following  beautiful  stanza  : 

“ There  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

By  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets  found  ; 

The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there, 

And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground.” 

Two  years  after  the  publication  of  the  Elegy,  Gray  was  suddenly  called  from  Cambridge  to 
the  bedside  of  his  dying  mother.  She  rallied  a little  after  his  arrival,  but  died  a few  weeks  later 
and  was  buried  beside  her  sister  in  the  churchyard  at  Stoke. 

Mr.  Gosse  draws  the  conclusion  from  a little  incident  which  occurred  just  before  the  death  ot 
Gray’s  mother,  in  connection  with  a proof  of  one  of  Bentley’s  illustrations  for  the  Elegy,  that  she 
not  only  did  not  know  anything  of  this  masterpiece,  but  was  not  even  aware  that  her  son  wrote 
poetry.  This  seems  almost  incredible  when  considered  with  relation  to  the  story  of  Lady  Cob- 
ham’s  efforts  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance.  Lady  Cobham  resided  in  the  Manor  House  at  Stoke, 
which  we  may  see  just  through  the  trees  to  the  right  of  the  church,  not  a stone’s  throw  away. 
She  had  received  a manuscript  copy  of  the  Elegy,  through  Horace  Walpole,  and  had  conceived  a 
most  intense  desire  to  meet  the  author.  No  better  evidence  of  Gray’s  retiring  disposition  and 
modesty  could  be  asked  for,  than  the  fact  that  Lady  Cobham  had  no  knowledge  that  the  writer 
of  the  Elegy  had  for  several  years  spent  his  summers  in  the  same  parish  in  which  she  resided. 
She  was  made  aware  of  this  by  one  Reverend  Mr.  Robert  Pert,  who  was  settled  at  Stoke,  and 
who  knew  Gray.  There  was  staying  with  Lady  Cobham,  at  this  time,  a Lady  Schaub,  who  knew 
Lady  Brown,  a friend  of  Gray’s.  With  this  very  roundabout  line  of  connection,  Lady  Cobham 
dispatched  Lady  Schaub  and  a Miss  Speed,  a niece  of  hers,  to  call  upon  Gray.  The  poet  was 
out  on  a stroll  when  they  called.  They  asked  Gray’s  mother  to  say  nothing  of  their  call,  but  they 

16 


left  a note  in  his  study  which  read  as  follows  : “ Lady  Schaub’s  compliments  to  Mr.  Gray;  she 
is  very  sorry  not  to  have  found  him  at  home,  to  tell  him  that  Lady  Brown  is  very  well.”  It 
seems  highly  improbable  that  such  an  incident  could  have  occurred  without  any  mention  to 
Gray’s  mother  of  his  local  fame  as  the  author  of  the  Elegy.  This  affair  led  to  a fast  friendship 
between  Gray  and  Lady  Cobham,  which  lasted  until  her  death,  nine  years  later.  The  poet  had 
given  us  his  version  of  the  half-romantic,  half-ludicrous  commencement  of  this  acquaintance  in 
the  poem,  “A  Lang  Story,”  the  opening  lines,  which  refer  to  the  old  manor  house,  being  : 

“ In  Britain's  Isle,  no  matter  where, 

An  ancient  pile  of  building  stands.” 


Gray’s  most  prolific  period  was  between  1753  and  1755.  The  “Ode  on  Vicissitude’  was 
commenced  during  this  time.  It  was  found  in  a fragmentary  and  incomplete  condition  after  his 
death  and  finished  by  Mason.  The  second  and  eleventh  stanzas  of  this  poem  are  very  beautiful : 

“ New  born  flocks  in  rustic  dance, 

Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet ; 

Forgetful  of  their  wintry  trance, 

The  birds  his  presence  greet  ; 

But  chief,  the  skylark  warbles  high 
His  trembling,  thrilling  ecstasy  ; 

And,  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight, 

Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light.” 

“ Happier  he,  the  peasant,  far, 

From  the  pangs  of  passion  free, 

That  breathes  the  keen  yet  wholesome  air 
Of  rugged  penury. 

He,  when  his  morning  task  is  done, 

Can  slumber  in  the  noontide  sun  ; 

And  hie  him  home,  at  evening’s  close, 

To  sweet  repast,  and  calm  repose.” 

The  “ Pindaric  Odes,”  the  least  known  but  the  most  classical  of  his  works,  were  written  dur- 
ing the  period  just  mentioned. 


17 


In  the  summer  of  1 7 5 5 , he  went  to  visit  a friend  in  Hampshire,  and  afterward  took  a some- 
what extended  tour  in  the  South  of  England.  He  returned  from  this  trip,  to  Stoke,  the  last  of 
July  in  very  poor  health.  This  was  the  beginning  of  a long  period  of  failing  health  which  lasted 
without  any  complete  recovery,  until  his  death,  sixteen  years  later. 

On  the  death  of  Colley  Cibber,  in  1757,  he  was  offered  the  post  of  poet-laureate,  which  he  de- 
clined in  a characteristic  letter.  This  gentle,  modest,  kindly-natured  man  could  deal  in  terms  of 
grimmest  irony  and  keenest  sarcasm  when  the  occasion  presented.  Apropos  of  the  letter  from 
the  Lord  Chamberlain,  conveying  the  desire  of  the  government  to  confer  this  honor  upon  him, 
and  offering  to  waive,  in  his  case,  the  writing  of  annual  odes,  which  had  always  been  one  of  the 
duties  of  the  poet-laureate,  he  writes  to  Mason  : 

“ Though  I well  know  the  bland,  emollient,  saponaceous  qualities  both  of  sack  and  silver,  yet 
if  any  great  man  would  say  to  me,  ‘ I make  you  rat-catcher  to  his  Majesty,  with  a salary  of  300 
pounds  a year  and  two  butts  of  the  best  Malaga  ; and  though  it  has  been  usual  to  catch  a mouse 
or  two  for  form’s  sake,  in  public,  once  a year,  yet  to  you,  sir,  we  shall  not  stand  upon  these 
things.''  I cannot  say  I would  jump  at  it;  nay,  if  they  would  drop  the  very  name  of  the  office,  and 
call  me  sinecure  to  the  King’s  majesty,  I should  still  feel  a little  awkward,  and  think  everybody  I 
saw  smelt  a rat  about  me.  Nevertheless,  I interest  myself  a little  in  the  history  of  it,  and  rather 
wish  somebody  may  accept  it  that  will  retrieve  the  credit  of  the  thing,  if  it  be  retrievable,  or  ever 
had  any  credit.” 

On  another  occasion,  in  replying  to  a friend  who  had  expressed  some  surprise  at  the  intel- 
lectual reputation  of  Lord  Shaftesbury,  he  says  : 

“ You  cannot  conceive  how  Lord  Shaftesbury  came  to  be  a philosopher  in  vogue  ; I will  tell 
you  ; first,  he  was  a lord  ; secondly,  he  was  as  vain  as  any  of  his  readers;  thirdly,  men  are  very 
prone  to  believe  what  they  do  not  understand  ; fourthly,  they  will  believe  anything  at  all,  pro- 
vided they  are  under  no  obligations  to  believe  it ; fifthly,  they  love  to  take  a new  road,  even 
when  that  road  leads  nowhere  ; sixthly,  he  was  reckoned  a fine  writer,  and  seems  always  to 
mean  more  than  he  said.  Would  you  have  any  more  reasons?  An  interval  of  above  forty  years 
has  pretty  well  destroyed  the  charm.  A dead  lord  ranks  with  commoners  ; vanity  is  no  longer 
interested  in  the  matter,  for  a new  road  is  become  an  old  one.” 

With  his  deep  sincerity,  large  grasp,  cultivated  judgment,  and  fastidious  taste,  he  was,  as 
might  be  expected,  impatient  with  all  forms  of  pretention.  On  the  opening  of  the  British 


Museum,  Gray,  having  taken  quarters  in  Southampton  Row,  near  by,  became  a daily  vis- 
itor and  student  at  the  new  institution.  He  had  for  some  time  contemplated  writing  a History 
of  English  Poetry  and  probably  most  of  his  work  here  was  with  a view  to  this  production. 

The  poet  seems  to  have  had  his  little  romance,  as  I have  already  hinted,  although  so  far  as 
we  know  it  was  of  such  a mild  character  as  not  to  have  exerted  any  marked  effect  upon  him.  It 
was  for  several  years  believed  he  would  marry  the  Miss  Speed  mentioned  above  as  the  niece  of 
Lady  Cobharn.  He  spent  considerable  time  in  her  company  from  the  date  of  their  meeting  until 
the  autumn  of  1760.  The  following  January  she  married  a poor  nobleman  ten  years  her  junior. 
She  is  said  to  have  inspired  the  following  solitary  specimen  of  his  love  poetry : 

“ With  beauty,  with  pleasure  surrounded,  to  languish  — 

To  weep  without  knowing  the  cause  of  my  anguish  ; 

To  start  from  short  slumbers  and  wish  for  the  morning  — 

To  close  my  dull  eyes  when  I see  it  returning ; 

Sighs,  sudden  and  frequent,  looks  ever  dejected  — 

Words  that  steal  from  my  tongue,  by  no  meaning  connected  : 

Ah!  say,  fellow-swains,  how  these  symptoms  befell  me? 

They  smile,  but  reply  not — Sure  Delia  will  tell  me  !” 

In  the  summer  of  1769,  Gray  visited  the  English  Lakes,  and  from  this  enchanted  region  he 
wrote  some  most  exquisitely  beautiful  descriptive  letters.  This  from  the  shore  of  Derwentwater  : 

“ In  the  evening  walked  alone  down  to  the  lake  by  the  side  of  Crow  Park,  after  sunset,  and 
saw  the  solemn  coloring  of  light  draw  on,  the  last  gleam  of  sunshine  fading  away  on  the  hilltops, 
the  deep  serene  of  the  waters,  and  the  long  shadows  of  the  mountains  thrown  across  them,  till 
they  touched  the  nethermost  shore.  At  distance  heard  the  murmur  of  many  waterfalls,  not  audi- 
ble in  the  daytime.  Wished  for  the  moon,  but  she  was  dark  to  me  and  silent,  hid  in  her  vacant 
interlunar  cave.'' 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a finer  bit  of  nature  painting  than  the  following,  written  from  the 
vale  of  Grasmere  : 

“Just  beyond  Helen  Crag  opens  one  of  the  sweetest  landscapes  that  art  ever  attempted  to 
imitate.  The  bosom  of  the  mountains,  spreading  here  into  a broad  basin,  discovers  in  the  midst 
Grasmere  Water  ; its  margin  is  hollowed  into  small  bays  and  bold  eminences,  some  of  them  rocks, 
some  of  soft  turf  that  half  conceal  and  vary  the  figure  of  the  little  lake  they  command.  From  the 
•shore  a low  promontory  pushes  itself  far  into  the  water,  and  on  it  stands  a white  village,  with  the 
parish  church  rising  in  the  midst  of  it ; hanging  enclosures,  corn  fields,  and  meadows  green  as 


*9 


emerald,  with  their  trees,  hedges,  and  cattle,  fill  up  the  whole  space  from  the  edge  of  the  water, 
(list  opposite  to  you  is  a large  farmhouse  at  the  bottom  of  a steep,  smooth  lawn  embosomed  in  old 
woods,  which  climb  half  way  up  the  mountain  side,  and  discover  above  them  a line  of  broken 
crags  that  crown  the  scene.  Not  a single  red  tile,  no  flaring  gentleman's  house,  or  garden  walls, 
break  in  upon  the  repose  of  this  little  unsuspected  paradise  ; but  all  is  peace,  rusticity,  and  happy 
poverty  in  its  neatest  and  most  becoming  attire. ” 

Gray  had  contemplated  a trip  to  Switzerland  in  the  Summer  of  1770,  by  invitation  of  one 
Bonstetten,  a Cambridge  student  from  the  land  of  William  Tell,  for  whom  he  had  conceived  a 
deep  friendship.  But  he  found  his  strength  unequal  to  the  effort.  His  health  had  been  rapidly 
failing  for  some  time,  and  in  the  Spring  of  1771  he  placed  himself  under  the  treatment  of  a phy- 
sician for  gout  in  his  stomach. 

Norton  Nichols  visited  him  about  this  time,  just  prior  to  his  departure  for  a trip  on  the  Con- 
tinent. Gray  exacted  a promise  from  him  not  to  call  on  Voltaire.  He  fully  recognized  the 
genius  of  the  great  Frenchman,  but  he  believed  him  a dangerous  enemy  to  Christianity,  and  Gray, 
although  averse  to  any  sort  of  religious  display,  was  himself  a sincere  Christian.  1 le  probably 
had  Voltaire  in  mind  in  writing  the  following  “ Sketch  of  His  Own  Character  ’ found  in  his 
pocket  after  his  death. 

“Too  poor  for  a bribe  and  too  proud  to  importune, 

He  had  not  the  method  of  making  a fortune  ; 

Could  love  and  could  hate,  so  was  thought  somewhat  odd  ; 

No  very  great  wit , lie  believed  in  a God  : 

A post  on  a pension  he  did  not  desire, 

But  left  Church  and  State  to  Charles  Townshend,  and  Squire.” 

Gray  returned  to  Cambridge  on  the  22nd  of  July,  in  a very  dejected  condition  of  mind  and 
body.  On  the  evening  of  the  24th,  while  at  dinner,  he  had  a very  violent  attack  of  nausea,  with 
spasms  of  the  stomach.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  He  was  taken  with  convulsive  fits 
a few  days  later  and  died  quietly,  shortly  before  midnight,  on  the  30th  of  July,  1771,  in  the  fifty- 
fifth  year  of  his  age.  His  body  was  interred  at  Stoke,  in  the  same  vault  containing  the  remains 
of  his  beloved  mother. 

Johnson,  in  his  “ Lives  of  the  Poets,”  seems  to  accept  the  description  of  Gray’s  attainments 
and  character  contained  in  the  letter  written  to  Boswell,  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Temple,  a rector  of 
St.  Gluvins,  Cornwall.  He  says  : 


20 


Ste'V  ^°^15  C^^OUT'C^VS.r’ol. 


“ Perhaps  he  was  the  most  learned  man  in  Europe.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
elegant  and  profound  parts  of  the  sciences,  and  that  not  superficially  but  thoroughly.  He  knew 
every  branch  of  history,  both  natural  and  civil  ; had  read  all  the  original  historians  of  England, 
France  and  Italy,  and  was  a great  antiquarian.  Criticism,  metaphysics,  morals,  politics,  made  a 
principal  part  of  his  study  ; voyages  and  travels  of  all  sorts  were  his  favorite  amusements  ; and 
he  had  a fine  taste  in  painting,  prints,  architecture  and  gardening.  With  such  a fund  of  knowl- 
edge his  conversation  must  have  been  equally  entertaining  and  instructive.  But  he  was  also  a 
good  man,  a man  of  virtue  and  humanity.  There  is  no  character  without  some  speck,  some 
imperfection,  and  I think  the  greatest  defect  in  his  was  an  affectation  in  delicacy,  or  rather  effemi- 
nacy and  visible  fastidiousness  or  contempt  and  disdain  of  his  inferiors  in  science.  He  also  had, 
in  some  degree,  that  weakness  which  disgusted  Voltaire  so  much  in  Mr.  Congreve  ; though  he 
seemed  to  value  others  chiefly  according  to  the  progress  they  had  made  in  knowledge,  yet  he 
could  not  bear  to  be  considered  himself  merely  as  a man  of  letters  ; and  though  without  birth  or 
fortune,  or  station,  his  desire  was  to  be  looked  upon  as  a private  independent  gentleman,  who 
read  for  his  own  amusement.  Perhaps  it  may  be  said,  what  signifies  so  much  knowledge  when  it 
produced  so  little?  Is  it  worth  taking  so  much  pains  to  leave  no  memorial  but  a few  poems? 
But  let  it  be  considered  that  Mr.  Gray  was,  to  others,  at  least  innocently  employed  ; to  himself 
certainly  beneficially.  His  time  passed  agreeably  ; he  was  every  day  making  some  new  acquisition 
in  science  ; his  mind  was  enlarged,  his  heart  softened,  his  virtue  strengthened  ; the  world  and  man- 
kind were  shown  to  him  without  a mask,  and  he  was  taught  to  consider  everything  as  trifling  and 
unworthy  of  the  attention  of  a wise  man,  except  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  and  the  practice  o 
virtue,  in  that  state  wherein  God  hath  placed  him.” 

This  seems  a somewhat  inadequate  summing  up  of  the  man,  although,  perhaps  the  “ pursuit 
of  knowledge  and  the  practice  of  virtue  ” might  be  considered  the  motto  for  an  ideal  life.  It  is 
said  that  the  offensive  fastidiousness  which  the  good  rector  mentions  in  his  letter,  was  only 
exhibited  towards  those  whose  acquaintance  he  did  not  care  to  cultivate. 

He  made  but  few  friends,  but  with  these  few  he  was  a most  charming  companion.  For  the 
most  part  he  lived  a solitary  life,  in  the  sense  that  the  most  profound  solitude  is  that  of  a deep 
and  sincere  nature  which  can  find  no  adequate  expression  or  satisfaction  in  the  shallow  trivialities 
of  ordinary  life. 


21 


His  fame  rests  not  upon  his  great  scholarship,  and  would  not,  had  he  left  far  greater  fruits  of 
it  than  he  has,  but  upon  the  noble,  tender,  solemn  lines  of  the  great  lyric  poem  which  has  carried 
his  name  into  many  remote  corners  of  the  earth,  where  nothing  more  is  known  of  Thomas  Gray 
than  that  he  was  the  author  of  the  “ Elegy  Written  in  a Country  Churchyard.” 

London,  1890.  J.  L.  Williams. 


22 


N 


®w  rl^  elin^n^rir)^  i&r)d5eap^  °9 


p'HE  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day; 

The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o’er  the  lea ; 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


23 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 


Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 

The  moping  Owl  does  to  the  Moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 


24 


7\rjd  drowsy  l'1!!  fold^-” 


Fr=>TT)  y®i}d^r  ivy-irj  M ^ d t<=w'r 


Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree’s  shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a mouldering  heap, 
Each  m his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 


25 


For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire’s  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees,  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield ; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field  ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke 


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Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 


1 he  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth,  e’er  gave, 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour ; — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 


27 


Nor  you,  ye  proud ! impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  Memory  o’er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise; 
Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 


Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honor’s  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust? 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 


t,e  t"  e^r^bihorj  r^oc?  \\)z\  r*  >J  S ^ f ' 


Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot,  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 


But  Knowledge,  to  their  eyes,  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  Time,  did  ne’er  unroll 
Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 


P ull  many  a gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 
Full  many  a flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton,— here  may  rest; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country’s  blood. 


30 


T^ir  ^OTr|^ly  joyj  &rjd  d^cjtir^y 


The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command; 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise ; 
To  scatter  plenty  o’er  a smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a nation’s  eyes, — 


Their  lot  forbade  : nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 


31 


The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  Truth  to  hide; 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  Shame; 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride, 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse’s  flame. 


Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life, 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 


f"".* r fr °rr|  tl-)^  'v^^.dcf » 17 'p'  cr  o'wd'j  i^T|obl^  ^rrtT^.” 


Yet  e’en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh. 


Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply ; 

And  many  a holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 


33 


For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e’er  resigned ; 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 


On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies ; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 
E’en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries; 
E’en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


34 


/ 


I^ruelji  r)  (3>  Wilh)  t y y te  p o d^Vvy  s>Way. 


For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th’  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 
If,  ’chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate ; 


Haply,  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say : 

“ Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 
Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  Sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 


35 


“ There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
H is  listless  length,  at  noontide,  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


“ H ard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Mut’ring  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove  ; 
Now  drooping,  woeful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 


36 


\\)<^  f°°l  °f  y°rjd^r  i^oddirjoj  b^ch . " 


"Hard  by  y°r^  Wood,  i^°W  5 rn i 1 i 1^ &5  in 


“ One  morn,  I missed  him  on  the  ’customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  ; 
Another  came ; nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he; 


“ The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read — for  thou  canst  read — the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.” 


37 


THE  EPITAPH. 


Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 

A youth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown  ; 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 


Farge  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

H eaven  did  a recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had — a tear; 

He  gained  from  Heaven — ’twas  all  he  wished  — a friend. 


38 


No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode ; 
Here  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose, — 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


39 


THE  REJECTED  VERSES. 


Hark ! how  the  sacred  calm  that  breathes  around 
Bids  every  fierce,  tumultuous  passion  cease ; 
In  still,  small  accents  whispering  from  the  ground 
A grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace. 


H im  have  we  seen  the  greenwood  side  along, 

While  o’er  the  heath  we  hied,  our  labor  done, 
Oft  as  the  woodlark  piped  her  farewell  song, 

With  wistful  eyes  pursue  the  setting  sun. 


40 


There  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

By  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets  found ; 
The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there, 

And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground. 


41 


V 


V 


